"You're not up to something, are you?" She stepped somewhat awkwardly through the door he held open, glancing around the empty classroom. "Just dancing practice?"
It was Christmas Eve, and the two of them had been procrastinating long enough that a last-minute session was now unavoidable.
"Only dancing practice," he assured her, following her in. "Nothing unnecessary."
"Nothing unnecessary." She repeated this with clear scepticism. "That's what you said when you invited me to the Three Broomsticks. And then you—"
He could see from the way she pressed her lips together that she was nervous.
He wanted, actually, to bring up what had happened in the library. But she clearly had no intention of touching that particular subject.
Draco took about two seconds to decide to let it go. He arranged his expression into something innocent and helpful. "The Ball is tomorrow. We don't have much time."
"Right." She made up her mind, stood in front of him, sighed. "Let's begin, then."
"Yes, let's." He straightened, pulled his shoulders back, and looked directly at her—and asked, with all the ceremony he had been saving for the right moment: "Beautiful lady, would you do me the honour of this dance?"
"You're being very serious about this," she said, in a tone that was slightly too cheerful, trying to cover the colour rising to her face.
Draco didn't match her deflective energy. He stayed quiet and extended his right hand, palm up, his left hand behind his back, and waited—grey eyes steady and smiling.
"I should mention that I'm not particularly good at this," she said, and gave him her hand.
"Neither am I. Please be patient with me." He took her hand, feeling a smile arrive on his face without his permission. "Now—I'll need to hold you. If anything feels uncomfortable, just say so."
She gave a small nod. She felt his right hand—fingers together—settle gently but firmly against her left shoulder blade; his left hand closed around her right, thumbs aligned and pointing upward.
"All right?" he asked quietly.
"Yes."
"Your posture is good. Your right arm is mine for now—try to follow my lead rather than anticipate it." He studied her. "Left hand on my right upper arm, thumb and forefinger relaxed. Good. Turn slightly left, toward my right side. When we're dancing, you need to be aware of what's behind me—"
"So I can warn you if someone's about to collide with us," she said at once.
"Exactly. Tap the side the hazard is coming from." He nodded. "The music's started. Let's try."
The gramophone in the corner had begun turning—a waltz, slow and sweeping. Hermione straightened her spine and looked at him.
He stepped forward. She was caught in the current of it before she'd consciously agreed to move, drawn into the opening phrase of the dance like a fledgling carried off on a high wind.
"Turn—good. Now step to the side—feet together—now tilt, rise, fall—good. Keep your strength along the central axis." His voice was close; she could feel the words as much as hear them. "Don't stiffen."
She was desperately trying not to stiffen.
She couldn't ignore the details: his hand warm at her shoulder blade, her hand enclosed in his, the narrow space of warm air between them as they moved. Candlelight ran across the walls in shifting patterns. The music lifted and fell.
He was careful—a kind of closeness that was also, somehow, a form of consideration. The faint cedar scent that always accompanied him was familiar in a way that was not helpful to her concentration, and every time he turned toward her, his eyes caught the light from the wall lamp and she found herself forgetting what her feet were supposed to be doing.
He had promised nothing unnecessary.
He kept the promise—no kiss, no impropriety—only the dance, only his hands guiding her through each turn. His ears were slightly pink. His attention never left her.
One glance from him was enough to scatter her footwork entirely.
She tried looking at his shoulder instead. His shoulder was also a problem. She tried the middle distance just past his ear.
She stepped on his foot.
"Sorry—" Her rhythm broke immediately.
"It's fine." He turned them both smoothly through a short circle, rescuing the lapse. "Don't look at your feet. Look at me. And don't stop when you make a mistake—keep going. If you stop, everyone around you stops too, which is a much clearer announcement of the error than the error itself."
"Right." She shifted her gaze to the bridge of his nose. Equally unhelpful. His nose was—she had noticed this before, and she wished she would stop noticing it—quite well-shaped.
She remembered, involuntarily, the feeling of it against her cheek.
After another minute or so of this internal commentary, she lost her balance entirely, stumbling sideways.
"Oops—sorry—"
"I have you." He caught her before she could twist her ankle, pulling her back with one sure motion. "Relax. Don't resist the lead. You don't need to predict what's coming—just respond to what's there."
"But if I don't know the sequence in advance—" She looked up at him, slightly breathless. "Shouldn't we plan a route? A fixed pattern?"
"Dancing isn't fixed. A formal Ball is full of unpredictable people moving in unpredictable directions—you can't plan around them." He patted her back once, reassuringly, and guided her back into motion. "The only constant is that I'll tell you what's next before it happens. Trust that."
"That does make sense," she admitted. "But I don't like not knowing. I don't like the feeling of losing control."
"I know." He was looking at her with an expression that was almost fond. "You like to be the one directing things. You were born to manage." His eyes were warm and quietly amused. "Now let me show you something. Stand still. Don't move at all."
She stopped. He took her weight entirely, shifting slightly until he'd found her centre of gravity without disturbing it.
"You don't have to predict my movements or memorise a sequence," he said, his voice dropping. "You only need to relax, trust me, and follow. I'll guide you. I'll signal every change before it happens." He held her gaze steadily. "Can you do that?"
"Yes," she said.
Her face was warm.
"I'll use my right hand to signal below your left shoulder blade whenever we change steps or patterns—you'll feel a light pressure. Like this." He demonstrated. "Do you feel it?"
"Yes."
"Before I move forward, I'll shift my weight with a slight toe-forward motion—you'll feel a push from my body. My right hand will soften. Your back will lose some support." He spread his palm and pressed gently. "Move forward now—yes, exactly that. Quick reaction."
She smiled a little, despite herself.
"For stepping back: I draw my leg first, my right hand increases pressure, giving you the hint to move toward me." He went through each signal slowly, watching her absorb it. "Everything should feel like water. Not steps—current. Pretend you're floating, and let the current carry you."
They tried it again. This time, something settled. She stopped fighting the rhythm and found it instead. He guided her through a slow spin—her hair lifting slightly, a surprised brightness crossing her face.
"I thought I'd practised quite well with Ginny," she said, "and now I find there's considerably more to it."
"Your foundation is genuinely good—remarkable for a beginner. What you're missing is practice with a real partner. That's easily solved." He led her through the spin again, watching her movements carefully for any sign of discouragement. "We're already building an understanding. Want to try it a few more times?"
Spinning with him was entirely different from spinning with Ginny. The height worked in her favour; the turns were broader and easier to fall into. She let herself go further into it each time, dizzy with the motion, and on the last rotation she came out too fast and nearly spun clean out of his hands.
He caught her. One smooth, certain movement, and she was in his arms instead.
He held her there for a moment longer than strictly necessary, looking at her face. She was flushed and bright-eyed and laughing slightly from the dizziness.
He wanted to kiss her.
He had given his word.
He kept it—but he also did not immediately let go.
"In general," he said, in a voice that was admirably level considering his current situation, "the lead uses the whole body—arms, legs, abdomen—not just the shoulders. Leading from only the shoulders disrupts the follow's balance." He pressed his palm lightly against her back to demonstrate. "Do you feel the difference?"
"Yes," she murmured.
She was, she privately admitted, becoming rather comfortable in his arms. She always felt secure there. She never worried, in his arms, about where the floor was.
*You've been infatuated with him for a very long time,* said something frank and uncharitable in the back of her mind. *You can't resist any of it. His smile. His hands. The way he caught you just now.*
*Would it be so terrible if he kissed you again?*
She buried her face against his shoulder before that thought could develop any further, which was the sensible thing to do, and sighed.
*Absolutely not. You're here to practise dancing. Focus.*
Above her head, she did not see the entirely undignified expression on his face as he looked at the ceiling and attempted to collect himself.
"Some people," he said, in the carefully measured tone of someone executing a plan, "consider the traditional hold to be rather intimate. They find it difficult to separate physical partnership from something more personal." A thoughtful pause. "I'm not suggesting that's how you feel, of course. If any of this is uncomfortable for you, I'm perfectly happy to keep more distance."
"It's fine," she said, from somewhere in the region of his collar.
"You're quite sure? You don't mind—this?" He kept his voice neutral and kind.
She remembered a flash of embarrassment—pulling away from him in the library—and felt her pride engage.
"Of course not. I'm perfectly comfortable. One ought to be professional about this sort of thing." She extracted herself from his arms and stood up correctly. "I have absolutely no objection to any of it."
The sound he made could charitably be described as a hum of agreement.
"Wonderful," he said. His expression, which she did not see in time, was distinctly triumphant. "In that case—shall we try a lift?"
She looked at him.
"A lift."
"Nothing complicated. It's still early. We have time."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked at his entirely reasonable face.
"I don't think I'm ready for something so—"
"Let's try it," he said gently, taking her wrist again and settling into position, as though this had already been decided. "Just a try. That's all."
---
On Christmas morning, Lavender Brown woke before anyone else.
She wrapped herself in her Gryffindor blanket and made her way to the window. Outside, the grounds were blanketed in a new fall of snow—deep, unmarked, brilliant white.
She surveyed the presents at the foot of each bed with a satisfaction she would not have admitted to out loud. Parvati's pile was roughly equivalent to hers. Hermione's was noticeably smaller—fewer social connections, more time in the library.
"Up! Up!" she said cheerfully. "Merry Christmas!"
Groaning filtered through the curtains. Parvati emerged looking aggrieved. "Did your Tarot cards predict disaster again?"
"No—presents!" Lavender was already sorting through her pile. "Come on!"
The dormitory woke into chaos, curtains flung back, wrapping paper torn open, exclamations and comparisons passing back and forth.
When Hermione finally emerged from behind her curtains, eyes still heavy, most of the others had moved to the common room. Only Lavender remained, carefully cataloguing her final few gifts.
"Late night, was it?" Lavender asked, glancing at her with clear interest. "I heard you come in."
"Mm." Hermione picked up the first gift from her pile and stopped.
The box was flat and rectangular. Silver-green. A colour she associated very specifically with a particular dungeon house.
Lavender looked at it. "What's that?"
"I'm not sure." She began to unwrap it.
Inside was a black velvet jewellery box, and inside that, resting on dark cloth, was a silver necklace. A large oval sapphire, deep royal blue, set in a silver bezel and surrounded by diamonds arranged in a snowflake pattern. In the winter light coming through the window, it was extraordinary.
Hermione stared at it.
"*Merlin,*" Lavender breathed, leaning in. "That's—that's an actual sapphire. Look at the size of it. And all those diamonds." She sat back. "Who sent this? There's no note, no card—nothing."
"Mm," Hermione said again.
She knew, of course. She had known from the moment she saw the colour of the wrapping paper. No one else would send a gift in Slytherin silver-green and then not sign it, because no one else would find that entertaining.
"It's absolutely gorgeous," Lavender said, in the tone of someone wrestling with envy and losing. "Here—" Without ceremony she lifted the chain from the box, stepped around behind Hermione, and fastened it at her neck. "There. Come and look."
Hermione let herself be pulled to the mirror.
The necklace caught the light from three directions and threw it back twice as bright. Against the pale winter-morning version of her, it looked—she tried to find the honest word for it—it looked like it had been made for her.
"You have to wear it tonight," Lavender said firmly.
"It might be too much—"
"The best way to thank someone for a gift is to use it," Lavender said. "And it matches your dress. Whoever sent it knew what you'd be wearing." She looked at Hermione's reflection. "That's interesting."
"Mm," said Hermione, for the third time, which told Lavender everything she needed to know and nothing she could actually use.
---
The foyer outside the Great Hall was dense with students at five minutes to eight.
Two Beauxbatons girls near the staircase had stopped mid-conversation. "Look at that one," one said in French to the other, nodding toward a figure pushing through the crowd.
Her companion looked. Tall, well-built, dark velvet high-collared dress robes over an intricately patterned white shirt. Platinum blonde hair dressed smooth and bright under the candlelight. The ease of someone who had never in his life needed to look as though he belonged somewhere.
"Someone's already got him," the first girl said, after a moment, with resignation.
Draco walked past without appearing to notice them, found Harry and Ron near the entrance—Harry looking panicked, Ron looking tragic about his robes—and paused to greet them.
"Are we still safe?" Ron asked immediately, clutching his frayed collar. "The bet, I mean—Hermione's definitely going with you?"
"Your money is fine," Draco said, with patience he didn't particularly feel, and looked around. "Where is she? Hasn't she come down?"
"She went to get ready at five," Ron said. "Five o'clock. Three hours ago. That's—"
"That's completely normal," Ginny said, sailing past on Neville's arm and rolling her eyes at her brother. She glanced at Draco, assessed him briefly, and found nothing to object to. "Malfoy. Stop looking at the ceiling. Watch the stairs. And lose the dead-fish expression—you'll want to be paying attention."
So he watched the stairs.
At eight o'clock precisely, the clock in the foyer struck.
And she appeared at the top of the staircase.
Most of the students near him had been mid-conversation. One by one they stopped.
She was wearing a gown of light blue-violet, the fabric moving easily as she came down the steps. Her hair was smooth and pinned up, showing her neck—long and pale—and the sapphire necklace lying at her collarbone, which caught the light with each step and gave it back multiplied.
Parvati Patil broke the quiet first, somewhere beside Harry: "She looks *beautiful*—"
People looked. The murmuring began.
"Is she from here?" a Beauxbatons student asked another, confused. "I've never seen her."
"She's in my year," Parvati was saying. "She's my *roommate.* I didn't—Lavender said, but I didn't quite—"
"*She's* Hermione Granger?" Padma said faintly.
"Yes," Draco said, quietly, to no one in particular.
He had known this was coming. He had the memory of it from another lifetime. None of that prepared him for the actual moment.
Her eyes found his across the foyer, and she smiled—shy and bright and not for anyone else—and walked toward him, each step marking a distinct beat that he felt somewhere behind his ribs.
She stopped in front of him. Her cheeks were pink. She was looking at him with an expression she was trying to make casual.
"Have you been waiting long?"
"No," he said. His voice came out softer than he'd intended. "I just arrived. Good timing."
He wanted to kiss her. He was aware this was not the appropriate moment. He was also aware that his self-control had been tested adequately for one evening.
He offered her his arm instead. She placed her hand on it—he felt it tremble, very slightly—and he led her through the crowd toward the entrance of the Hall.
The whispering rose and fell around them. He paid it no attention. He was aware of her beside him, and of the way she was pretending not to notice the stares.
"How did I do?" she murmured, when they were almost at the doors.
He looked at her.
"Beautifully," he said. "Completely and entirely beautifully."
She lifted her chin, and the nervousness left her face, replaced by something quiet and proud, and she walked with him through the doors and into the light.
---
At the head of the queue near the Great Hall entrance, the four champions and their partners waited for the signal. Harry and Parvati. Cedric and Cho Chang. Krum and his partner. Draco noted with private satisfaction that Hermione, even in this company, was entirely not outshone.
And then—the spectacle that eclipsed everything else.
Fleur Delacour appeared on the arm of a tall, dark-haired wizard with striking grey eyes and the easy posture of someone who found formal occasions amusing. He was dressed in long black velvet robes and greeted Draco with a grin as they passed.
Sirius Black. The substitute Defence Against the Dark Arts instructor.
The sound of approximately two hundred simultaneous heartbreaks was audible.
"Did you see Harry's face?" Draco murmured to Hermione, genuinely delighted.
"His mouth was open," she said, her eyes dancing. "Ron looked as though he'd been hit with a Stunning Spell."
"Accurate." He steered her toward a table near the teachers'. "Come on. Let's sit before the stampede."
The Great Hall was transformed. The four long house tables had been replaced by a hundred small round ones, each lit by floating candles. Silver frost shimmered on the walls. The ceiling above them was a deep winter sky spangled with stars, and from it hung great swags of mistletoe and ivy. At the far end, a low stage waited for the Weird Sisters, whose instruments could already be seen arranged and ready.
They ordered food from the gleaming plates—Hermione barely noticed what she ordered; Hungarian beef stew appeared in front of her and she ate some of it—and he sat across from her and watched her in a way that made concentrating on beef stew very difficult.
"The necklace suits you," he said, after a while. His gaze traced the silver at her collarbone.
"I love it," she said. "But—it's very expensive, isn't it? You shouldn't have—"
"Sapphire is the birthstone for September," he said. "You were born in September. It seemed appropriate." He looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Besides—it matched the dress."
She paused. "How did you know what colour I was wearing?"
"A guess," he said, very slightly too quickly. "The important thing is—it also has a number of protective spells worked into the setting. It can deflect minor curses. More powerful than the ring."
"Like the ring?" She looked down at the sapphire with new interest. "Tell me more about that—"
He told her considerably more about it. He was still explaining the finer points of the enchantment as the dinner plates cleared themselves and Professor Dumbledore rose and waved his wand, sending the tables gliding smoothly to the walls.
The Weird Sisters, dressed in robes that appeared to be made entirely of shredded things, ran onto the stage to thunderous applause. A beat, a build—and then music, filling the Hall from floor to ceiling.
Sirius led Fleur out first, and they danced with the effortless rhythm of two people who were both very good at this and knew it. The applause from the staff table was immediate and enthusiastic.
The crowd began to move toward the floor.
"Dance?" Draco said.
"I'll probably step on you," she said.
"Worth the risk." He leaned in slightly and said, close to her ear: "Clear your mind. Give yourself to the music."
The warmth of his breath against her cheek scattered whatever she had been about to say.
Before she'd recovered, his hand was in hers and they were moving onto the floor, his other hand settling at her waist, the familiar pressure and warmth of it cutting through the noise and the crowd, and there was nothing to do except what he had asked—follow him.
She did.
He was extraordinary to dance with. She had noticed this in practice, but practice was an empty classroom with a gramophone. This was a hundred other people, candlelight, music that had weight and pull, and him—entirely at ease, as if a ballroom were the natural environment for him, guiding her through the crowd with the unhurried authority of someone who had always known exactly where to go.
She stopped thinking about her feet.
She stopped thinking about anything, really. The music moved through her and he moved with it, and she moved with him, and somewhere in the middle of a slow turn she realised she was simply dancing—not surviving, not concentrating, not managing—actually dancing—and she smiled.
He felt her relax. The smile started in his chest before it reached his face.
He kept his word and gave her the lift—at the right moment in the music, clean and sure, her hands on his shoulders, her skirt describing a wide arc in the air above the floor—and he heard the small involuntary sound she made and felt her grip tighten on him. He set her down carefully.
"That's what real dancing feels like," she said, slightly breathless, wonder in her voice.
"That's what real dancing feels like," he agreed.
She was looking up at him with her eyes very bright, cheeks flushed, happiness unguarded on her face.
He had not felt like this in a very long time. He had not felt like this since before the first life ended. No nightmares. No Dark Lord. No waiting. Only the music, and the warmth, and this girl trusting him completely with her hand and her balance and her laughter.
In her eyes, in that moment, he saw only himself reflected.
Just him.
---
By convention, the same partners should not dance two consecutive songs—the tradition being that a Ball exists partly to broaden social connections.
"Are you thirsty?" He offered her his arm as the first piece ended and they stepped back from the floor.
"Very." She was fanning herself with one hand, cheeks still bright. "Thank you."
"Find a seat. I'll get something."
He went to fight through the crowd to the drinks table, obtained two cups of orange juice, and was working his way back when he looked through a gap in the crowd and stopped.
Viktor Krum was bowing to Hermione.
She looked around the room—looking for him, he realised—didn't find him, and after a moment's hesitation, took Krum's hand and followed him onto the dance floor.
Draco stood still for a moment.
He set both cups on the nearest table. He found an empty chair in a corner, dropped into it, and unknotted his bow tie with more force than was strictly necessary, shrugging off his velvet robe.
Harry appeared beside him shortly thereafter, staring across the room with a particular intensity that had nothing to do with Krum. Ron appeared on the other side, pale and slightly ill-looking, the lace edging of his robes fraying further with each passing minute.
Ron noticed Draco first. He offered a dispirited wave.
"Those are the worst robes I've ever seen," Draco said, which was honest if not helpful.
"I know," Ron said miserably. He watched the dance floor. "Hermione's dancing with Krum." A pause. "Do you think she could get me an autograph?"
Draco looked at him.
He did not answer.
Across the Hall, Krum danced with the particular deliberateness of a man who was making a point rather than making conversation. At the end of the song, he released Hermione's hand. His eyes tracked across the crowd and found Draco's.
The look was clear and specific. *Even without being her partner, I can still dance with her.*
Draco stood up.
He picked up his velvet robe from the chair. He walked, at a perfectly measured pace, toward the doors of the Great Hall, past the laughter and the music and the spinning couples and the enchanted snow beginning to fall from the starlit ceiling.
The corridor outside was cool and quiet.
He stood in it for a moment, one hand on the stone wall, and breathed.
Krum had not ruined the evening. The evening, up to that point, had been exactly what he had wanted it to be. He knew this.
He also knew he was not going back into that Hall until he trusted himself to behave like a rational person in it.
He stood in the corridor and worked on it.